


attendant sa femme

by Ashling



Category: Little Women (2019)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Married Couple, No Plot/Plotless, PWP without Porn, Vacation, me: /daydreams abt having a wife/, me: is this Writing?, okay maybe a little tiny bit of porn, very light whiff of femdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24610690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: She liked to make him wait. (He liked it too.)
Relationships: Theodore Laurence/Amy March
Comments: 11
Kudos: 97
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	attendant sa femme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



> (As someone I used to know often said, "better late than dead!")

As Laurie lay naked atop the duvet of the hotel bed, he appeared to be reading a conscientiously nuanced and dangerously drowse-inducing article in the latest print of Le Temps, but really his mind was consumed by the question of when his wife would emerge from the bathroom and what state she would be in. Although Amy had never explicitly said it, he knew she liked to make him wait. He rather liked it too, so the time she had spent in the bathroom with the door closed could be an indication in his favor. 

On the other hand, he knew she was nearing the end of a series of novels that Jo had recommended, which could mean that she was so absorbed in reading that she didn’t even notice she was in the bath and would emerge half an hour later wrinkle-toed and cold, wanting nothing more than a hot cup of tea and a late start the next morning. In that case, he might as well put on his pajamas and get some sleep. It was 10:14. He had been waiting a while already. He told himself he would wait another five minutes. 

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door swung open, smoothly and without even the slightest creak of hinges, revealing Amy standing naked and pinning up her hair in the mirror. The slow, motion with which she fixed her hair, the perfect air of unconcern, was deliberate. She had evidently toweled off from the bath but still seemed to glow from the circle of lights round the mirror, and the pale peach-colored freshness of her put to shame the whole mélange of gilt and marble beyond, the way a wildflower in a vase, no matter how lovely the vase, looked like it needed wild grasses for company.

The hairpins meant that Amy wanted a bit of playacting, and conscious that things always—yes, always—went better for him if his wife got her way, Laurie did not put down the newspaper, though he wanted to. However, he also did not do half as good a job at pretending to read as she did in pretending to ignore him as she turned off the bathroom lights and made her way to her side of the bed.

Laurie was very hopeful, and even would have put down his newspaper, but Amy slid out the drawer of her bedside table and produced a book, which she opened to a spot very close to the end. Mentally, he cursed the sight of it, even though he knew her games were always more fun when they fully committed to playing them. Back to the newspaper. It was as if he’d entirely forgotten how to read in French. Possibly he’d forgotten how to read, period.

Beside him, the bed dipped as Amy lay down on her stomach, chin propped up on one hand as the other hand turned the book’s pages. The thin pages seemed to whisper slyly when she turned them. He allowed himself to slouch down further, slanted a little so he slid closer to her bare shoulder. At this angle, he could see her face past the edge of the newspaper and stare his happy fill.

Amy must have felt it, but she permitted it. There they would have stayed for a good long while, enjoying a building simmer as they had done many a time before, but for one thing: Laurie had left the window open a couple inches.

Paris overflowed with life, and a nighttime breeze there could very well carry on it strains of springtime leaves, fresh rain, laughter, and even unglamorous strains of trash and shouting, but as varied and lovely as the city was, it could not account for the faint scent of vanilla. Vanilla, and other things…

Laurie knew that his wife had gone shopping with an old friend, some shared acquaintance with the Vaughns, and he hadn’t for a moment suspected that it would hold any results for him. Yet there he lay, mouth watering, trying to place the other notes. Something musky, something sweet.

He folded up the newspaper, set it aside, and rolled over onto his stomach into the center of the bed, just barely not touching Amy, who didn't so much as blink. She turned a page, a bit slowly, and kept on reading. Sans reproof, Laurie felt emboldened to lean over and inhale deeply, his nose grazing the curve of her shoulder. Vanilla, yes, and then the rich, earthy sweetness of amber, the soft creaminess of sandalwood, and then all those layers cut with a hint of lemon. The unexpected sharpness that made the masterpiece. Like a bold stroke in a painting—or Amy's temper. Without the petty streak, he reflected, she'd be too perfect and too beautiful and therefore dull. 

He glanced up at her face and saw that she was no longer performing for him, no longer making a point of ignoring him, but was truly engaged in her last chapter. She had as many faces as the sea, his wife, and he loved them all, but the clear-eyed absorbed look was certainly one of his favorites. Okay. He'd be good. One kiss, and he'd wait his turn with all the patience of a saint. Again he inhaled, long and slow and luxurious, and let his eyes wander across her. There was the smooth slope of her back, the gentle groove and knobs of her spine, which he had counted idly on more than one occasion with the pad of his thumb. There was her round shoulder, and the sweep of her collarbone, and the hollow at the base of her throat and her throat and the spot just below her ear behind the edge of her jaw, which had the tiniest scar from a time she fell out of the apple tree while pretending to be a fine lady riding a horse, saddle on what she thought was a sturdy branch. She was so sensitive there. He wanted to, but he wouldn't; it would be a provocation. Many a time before, he'd gone back to kiss that spot and been gratified with a low pleading whimper in the back of her throat. No, no. He'd be good.

He leaned over just a bit further and brushed one innocent kiss along the nape of her neck. Tendrils of her pinned hair kissed him back, chastely, on the cheek.

"Laurie?" Amy said. It wasn't much of a question; it had the tone of an answer already held. But he obliged, settling back onto his elbows, his face close to hers, eyes glinting with anticipation of play, whatever play there might be.

"Yes?" he said.

Without looking up from her book, Amy reached for him, thumb and forefinger spread wide so that the V between them caught him just under his bottom lip, so that thumb and forefinger made little dents in his cheeks, firm but not playful. _Oh,_ he thought happily, and then she twisted her wrist at an angle and he followed that firm pressure down until he was sprawled on his back, pinned to the pillow. She didn't give an inch, but there was something very gentle in it. He could hear the pages whispering by the time, but he didn't count them, didn't need anchor when she was already holding him down. He traced the leafy pattern on the ceiling and floated in anticipation.

At some point, a soft thump. He glanced over, and found it book on nightstand, and Amy looking over at him with those same eyes. She had a way of focusing on him that could make him a holy thing, however filthy the undercurrent.

"Good ending?" he said.

"Quite." 

Amy shifted her weight a little onto the opposite elbow, and then her hand lifted. She smeared the pad of her thumb across his bottom lip, slow, and then angled so that her thumb went along his teeth on the long stroke back. And then she hooked her thumb into his mouth, opened him up, and leaned over. Her tongue was insistent but slow, and she tasted like mint, and it was the nearest he'd gotten to being fucked (so far) and he enjoyed every dizzy second of it. Again it ended only when she wanted it to end, and that took a long, long time. When at last she pulled back and took a look at him, she seemed to like the sight. 

"You couldn't resist," Amy said fondly.

"It's a nice perfume," he said, very pleased with himself, reaching up and drawing the long golden pin from her hair, watching it fountain down, burying his fingers in it. There was more luxury in her than in all of France. The woman was a country all by herself.

"It is," Amy said, indulgently, watching him wind a strand of her hair around his finger.

"And you like me this way," Laurie said, assured. "I like me this way. Everyone's satisfied."

"Or will be," Amy said, and there was that glint in her eyes again. She leaned down.


End file.
